Friends, I survived. After three months of training, a crash course couple of weeks in the unit, and then the blissful embrace of the Christmas holidays, now I am a padre. Admittedly, I have a few years official ‘probation’, but I’m still the single padre responsible for my unit, with a senior chaplain available at the end of a phone. Everything still feels very new and strange, and I am relieved in moments I get to do something ‘normal’ and priestly, but it is exciting. This role is already such a privilege, but it needs a lot of self-sufficiency and taking the initiative.
Around that, I have finally landed in a house, after sleeping (or not) in eight beds and a sleeping bag over the last five months. There are still boxes to unpack, but we are slowly getting everything out, though it will be a little bare even when we are through. I bought white goods for the first time in my life, which was a bit of a milestone, and the kilometres of road between me and various people I love are becoming intimate friends, though I will never like the M25. Never. I am very happy with my new car, which is doing well at all I am asking of it. I have connected with the Cathedral, the Deanery, the SCP Chapter and an Archdeacon. I have found a Pilates studio, the local pool, and the stables – God sniggering up the divine sleeve when, in my first lesson back on a horse after fifteen years, the creature I was on was badly behaved, disruptive and difficult, and it was called… Parish. No, really, genuine name.
Anyway, I am still very much processing the huge change since I said farewell to the actual parish in August, and the immense number of experiences I have had. The emotional toll was great, with extreme highs and lows, without a moment to catch my breath, and I am incredibly grateful to my friends, family, and colleagues who have supported me through it all. It seems bonkers to contemplate, really. I returned to St John’s for Epiphany Carols and the musical director’s leaving do this month, and it was a little like the army and Sandhurst was some fever dream, except the fact that I could tell that I am not the same person that last walked out those doors, not least because many struggled to recognise me with my grown-out hair!
Every shift along my journey of calling and discernment has felt momentous, and not just life-changing, but person-changing, and this is no different. My life was that of a stage manager, then ordination candidate, pastoral assistant, ordinand, curate, now padre. I am still a theatrical, and a discerner of calling, and an Anglican, and a priest, and now a (professionally qualified) officer (in the distinctive and nuanced way of army chaplains) as well. And that’s just my identity. I have learned patience, temperance, and understanding; I have learned the value of a phone call, of sacrifice, of every single incomprehensible human being God has made; I have become more considerate, confident, and theologically-minded.
As I have oft observed on this blog, that is partly due to just growing up, but I think there’s also something to finding the right path and following where you are called in which transformation is inherent, which should not surprise us coming from a resurrected Saviour. That transformation is not always being built up – I have lost my life in theatre, I have broken friendships, I have been split in two at points, as part of that process of transformation, which should not surprise us coming from a crucified Saviour. And it is holistic, both this holy thread of ministering, communion, and purpose, and weaved with the mundane ropes of packing, logistics, and fridges, which should not surprise us coming from an incarnate Saviour.
I am where I am called to be. That is very reassuring given all I’ve done to get here! Now to discover what I am called to do here, what I am called to join in with, or start, or prevent, how I am to love and be loved. I hope to be a gift, as much as these people are already a gift to me.
